Saturday, 1 December 2012

Outrageous Injustice!

Isn’t it
marvellous how everything is online nowadays? It’s all so convenient, efficient
and simple. Want to upgrade your phone? Just log in to your account, choose the
model and it will be sent to your door. There’s no need to go to the
shop for a humiliating encounter with a young man who knows more about phone
technology than you ever will: no need to speak to a bothersome human at all. Thus
seduced by the prospect of a comfortable, care-free experience, I logged on,
sailed through the streamlined procedure and, soon after, received an email telling
me that my new phone would be delivered on Friday between 10.37 and 11.37. My
amazement at the sheer precision of the process was tempered, just a little, by
scepticism. Was it possible that a man in a van could so precisely predict his
arrival at my door?

My qualm was
justified when, on Friday, the delivery failed to materialise. I waited
patiently until 11.38 before resorting to the website in search of a number I
could call. What I saw instead, however, was a cheeky message informing me that,
since I was not at home, the delivery had not been possible. Now, I am well aware
that the degree of outrage I felt on account of this was out of all proportion
to the significance of the situation but, driven by a sense of deep injustice,
I felt urgently compelled to tell someone
that I had been at home during my
allotted time-slot.

I found the
phone number in an obscure section of the website and, calming myself so as not
to sound unreasonable, called in hope of a sympathetic ear. But the recorded
voice on the line was intent only on guiding me back to the website where, for
a small fee, I would be able to rearrange the delivery at a time convenient to
me. I now felt desperate to regale somebody
with this tale of compounded injustice but, still capable of a degree of
rational behaviour, I decided not to pursue the issue. Instead, I would leave
it to the delivery people to resolve what was, in fact, their problem. Still, I spent the next few hours feeling disgruntled
and unhappy.

The delivery
did come eventually but it brought with it more problems which, ironically, can
only be resolved by my visiting the shop and speaking to a real, live person. I
am in no hurry.

Meanwhile, in order to gain some perspective, I
devoted a whole morning to the leisurely appraisal of an exhibition of the art,
culture and politics of Mughal India. From their power base in Central Asia the
dynastic Mughals swept south into India in 1526 and established an empire
which, for about three hundred years, waxed and waned over the continent. Despite
their Islamic tradition, the Mughal emperors were relatively tolerant of the predominantly
Hindu indigenous religion. They cultivated a sophisticated lifestyle for
themselves, encouraging painting and poetry, while building beautiful palaces,
impressive forts and a bureaucracy to manage their diverse empire.

But after an
hour or so of closely examining colourful, intricate (and quite small)
paintings I began to feel uneasy. The objects themselves are wonderfully
executed but the subject matter is relentless: a succession of emperors and their
entourages, decked out in fabulously rich costumes, idealised as super-humans
and lording it over the rest of humanity. I could feel my sense of injustice
rising and, when I got to the display showing the Emperor Akbar’s ledgers, it
went critical. There was documented how everything grown, harvested and sold
was taxed to pay for his pompous, self-important lifestyle. He may have been a
patron of the arts but he cared not for the poverty, ignorance and deprivation which
were the lot of his subjects.

Which goes
to show that injustice is nothing new: I’ll just have to get used to it I
suppose.